For Patria
by Vernacular Jargon
Summary: Enjolras is in love with Patria: his homeland, France, and everything good that she stands for. One night, an injured woman by the same name enters the Café Musain and is taken under the wing of Les Amis before the rebellion. Only Enjolras would confuse a woman with his country.
1. Chapter One

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any rights to _Les Misérables _or anything affiliated with it.

The eyes of the prostitute were burning with molten blue fire in the dark of the night. Her thin, red lips curled in disgust toward the persistent man in front of her and when she spoke, her voice growled with the same intensity seen in the expressions on her face. "I told you to leave me _alone_."

The drunken man tottered on his sea legs when he took another step toward the girl but despite his imbalance he was still as much a threat as ever. His face contorted into a sneer that made his unshaven, grimy face terrible to witness. "The last I checked, whores don't get a say who they work with." At his remark, the man swung out a burly arm toward the prostitute's gaudy red rags but missed.

The prostitute remained unfazed. She was subjected to plenty of violence since she became a lady of the night two years ago and has since been desensitized to most of it. However, that did not stop her from keeping her guard. "I told you before- I'm done for the night. Find someone else along this alley." She steadily glanced at the man to make sure he wouldn't hurt her before she turned her back and walked away. Her bare feet made no sound on the cobblestones.

Anger bubbled up like a volcano inside the man when he saw the prostitute walk away. For six months he has had an insatiable hunger deep in his gut that nearly drove him crazy toward the last leg of his journey on the sea. A little prostitute would not deny him now if he could help it. He grit what dirty teeth he had left and launched himself toward the girl with an angry cry.

He landed on the prostitute and both of them fell onto the cobbles. Pain exploded white hot in her ankle and two sickening pops were heard on her side. She was momentarily blinded when her head hit the brick cobbles and when her vision returned, pulses of immense pain washed over her with every wild beat of her heart. Despite her resolve to stay strong and silent during her working hours, she couldn't help but scream in pain.

"Stay quiet!" The sailor propped himself up on one hand while the other punched the girl's cheek.

This last act gave way to a pain so intense that her body, unable to take any more, curled up inside itself and became unconscious. The sailor saw the girl's eyes flutter close and knew that he would now either have an unconscious prostitute or he will have to move on to find another. As he was contemplating what to do, he heard two sets of boots running toward the alley opening. Not one to wait around and take blame for his crimes, the sailor immediately decided to find a different prostitute to satisfy his need and ran off in the other direction, deep into the darkness of the alley.

The pair of boots belonged to two young men in the prime of their lives. They entered the alleyway at the same time and picked up speed when they saw the prostitute lying in the middle of the alley. One set of boots belonged to a man with thick, dark curly hair and thick eyebrows that shadowed worried eyes and the second set of boots belonged to a fair-haired man with a soft, yet serious, face.

The second man kneeled down and grabbed the girl's wrist to check her pulse. "Combeferre, is she-" the first man cut himself off, as if by not saying 'dead' there was a stronger possibility that the girl was still alive.

"She's alive, just unconscious." Combeferre looked up and down the girl for any sign of injury but couldn't see any major wounds in the dark. He brushed her blonde hair away from her face and thought a bruise was blooming on her cheek but he wasn't certain. "We should take her with us to the Café Musain. Joly no doubt brought his medicine bag and will be able to help her more than I." He looked up at his worried friend. "Courfeyrac, I'll carry her part of the way but if she gets too heavy I need you to be close in case I lose my grip."

Courfeyrac's dark curls bounced up and down when he quickly nodded. He looked on, ready to assist, as Combeferre carefully slid his arms underneath the girl's neck and legs. Once Combeferre was sure she was secure in his arms, he slowly stood up. The girl was so light that Combeferre doubted that he would actually need Courfeyrac's help. He looked down at the face of the girl and immediately felt pity: her cheeks were hollow and her eyes sunk into her face were darkly rimmed with a mixture of sleepless nights and malnutrition. "We'll need to feed her a bit of bread when she wakes; she's just skin and bones."

The two made their way to the Café Musain as quickly as they could without harming her any more than they already assumed.

In the Café Musain, many university men were sitting and standing in the largest room on the second floor that overlooked the front of the Café. Currently, they were in a heated dispute.

"It doesn't matter who does it," the leader stated in exasperation, his curly blond hair in disarray from running his hands through it in frustration. "But it needs to be done."

"If no one wants to do it, then why don't you do the job yourself, Chief?"

"We've been over this, Grantaire," said the Chief as he narrowed his sharp blue eyes at the drunken man. "I have other duties that take precedence over this. I have no time."

"Hell," Grantaire said with a wave of his wine bottle, "I have no duties other than drink. Why not I take the job?"

The Chief's lips created a thin line of impatience on his severe face. "You'll never be sober enough to sew a straight line." He turned to the rest of his men. "Flags need to be sewn. We cannot have a revolution without flags. Does anybody here know how to sew?"

Every man was silent and some shifted their gaze to inspect their boots. The Chief exhaled in irritation and quickly scanned the room to look at everyone; his eyes were calculating each in their turn.

"Feuilly."

A tall and thin man with tight brown curls looked up from his worn boots. "Yes, Enjolras?"

"Sewing isn't a far cry from fan-making, is it not?"

"Correct," the fan maker answered with a hint of disappointment in his eyes. Adding this chore to the rest of his duties, he knew he was going to experience very late nights in the coming weeks. "I will sew the-"

Feuilly was cut off at the sound of rushing boots taking the nearby staircase three steps at a time. "Clear the table!" Courfeyrac exclaimed to the crowded room, breathless. "Clear the table! Where is Joly?"

"Courfeyrac, what is the matter?" Enjolras, the Chief, asked in concern. He knew Courfeyrac and Combeferre were supposed to come together and only seeing one urging the men to clear the table and asking for their friend- an aspiring doctor- meant the other was badly injured.

"Combeferre and I," Courfeyrac started as men lifted their bottles from the table and cleared the surface of maps and loose leafs of paper, "we heard a scream in an alley nearby and when we ran toward the sound we found an unconscious woman in the street. She needs care. We don't know what's wrong with her but she hasn't waked since we found her."

Joly appeared from behind a group of men in the back corner, his ever-present bag of medical supplies clutched tightly in his hand. "I'm here! Bring her up!"

It was then that the men heard Combeferre's slow steps up the staircase, heavy with the extra weight he was carrying. The men in the room stepped aside to make a path to the table for Combeferre. He set the girl as gently as he could on the table and Joly immediately looked her over. "Someone fetch a handful of bread and a cup of water," Joly commanded, "it looks as if she hasn't eaten in some time and the food will do her good." At this, one of the men nearest to the staircase took off in search of food.

Joly's nimble hands brushed lightly against the girl's cheek where a fist-sized bruise was indeed darkening her pale skin. His hands traveled down her collarbone and her arms to make sure nothing was broken or sprained. It wasn't until Joly was methodically checking each rib and found two on her left that were broken that the girl woke up with a gasp of pain. "I'm sorry, mademoiselle," Joly apologized quickly when he saw the girl's face contort with pain. "I'm checking for any breaks. You have two broken ribs."

The girl clenched her teeth tightly to keep from crying out and steadily exhaled. She looked at all the men around her with fear etched in her eyes as deep as they were blue. She jerked her head in panic to get a better look at her surroundings but a fresh wave of pain that traveled down her skull stopped her and she groaned.

"Where else does it hurt?" Joly asked as he quickly checked the rest of her ribs. Thankfully, only the two were broken.

The girl stayed silent and tried to hide the fear entwining with her pain. In an unfamiliar room full of men, she knew the odds were not in her favor. She lifted her chin a little higher in a weak show of defiance.

Joly frowned and took it upon himself to find any other injuries. He looked at her bare and dirty ankles and saw the left ankle was swollen. "This will hurt," he warned her before he inspected the ankle with his fingers.

The girl tried to control her breathing, trying all her might not to look weaker than she already did. She shut her eyes tightly yet in a moment of weakness, a tear escaped out of one of them. The men around the table silently stared at the unknown woman and some awkwardly shifted their feet.

"Your ankle is badly sprained," Joly said after he finished inspecting the girl's ankle. Softly, he asked "What is your name, mademoiselle?"

"What is yours?" The girl countered, mistrust audibly apparent in her hoarse voice.

"Joly. I am a medical student." The man who went to get food came back and Joly turned to take the bread and water from him. "Thanks, Marius." Turning back to the girl, Joly spoke with a smile, "Here. You're malnourished. Take these." He offered the food to the girl but she eyed them warily.

"What do you want for them?" She stared fiercely at Joly with her blue eyes that revealed a mixture of pain, mistrust, and fear.

"Nothing," Joly smiled softly in an effort to grant himself a sliver more trust in the girl's perspective, "just tell me your name and let me treat your injuries."

The girl clamped her mouth shut and did not speak nor take Joly's food offering.

Joly looked up in disappointment at the head of the table where Enjolras was standing. Enjolras was about to take over for Joly when a young voice piped up from the entryway.

"What's got all your tongues tied?"

The girl quickly lifted her head at the voice, forgetting the pain that would follow. "Gavroche?"

A dirty boy with blond hair rushed forward and his grey eyes were caught by surprise to find the girl on the table. "Gavroche!" The girl said happily. Her happiness overrode all other emotions residing in her eyes. Her face, though pale as paper, flushed with joy. She moved one arm off the table in invitation and Gavroche quickly ran toward her for an embrace. The girl swallowed in an attempt to keep her pain at bay. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm always here during their meetings!" The gamin Gavroche exclaimed excitedly, "They're my friends!"

The girl leaned forward and almost touched noses with the boy, "Do you trust them?" she whispered.

"With my life," he responded, matching her whispered tone.

"Gavroche, how do you know this girl?" Courfeyrac curiously asked from behind, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"She takes care of me and the other boys. She gives us food and sometimes blankets when she can." he looked worriedly at the girl on the table, though he kept silent, knowing all too well what must have happened.

Enjolras knew the connection the girl has with Gavroche would make her a little more trusting than before and cleared his throat to grab her attention and, along with hers, everyone else's. "Mademoiselle, what is your name?"

The girl looked at Gavroche for support and once he nodded, she looked up at the ceiling in response, as Enjolras was out of her view. "My name is Patria."


	2. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any rights to _Les Misérables _or anything affiliated with it.

At first, the men in the room didn't know what to do. It was well known within their group that Enjolras, their Chief, was too consumed with the idea and execution of a revolution for a new and better France to have any time for women or mistresses. The only woman he ever loved, they teased, was Patria: their homeland, France. Never did they think that an actual living, breathing woman would possess the same name.

Grantaire was the first to break the silence. "France in the flesh!" he laughed from his spot near the wall, looking at the bewildered Enjolras.

Enjolras narrowed his eyes at the laughing Grantaire but quickly reverted them back to Patria for examination. It was doubtful that this girl would ever live up to the real Patria and all that she stood for. Every man, woman, and child has flaws that tarnish their personalities and their deeds but Patria- the beautiful land that Enjolras would die for a thousand times over- her only flaw was that she allowed those same men, women, and children to deface her with all their imperfections without a cry for mercy or respite. Enjolras almost pitied the girl- she had a name she could never live up to even if she tried. Who had named her so cruelly?

"P-Patria," Joly spoke after he overcame his confusion. He swiftly looked at Enjolras with half a smile before he addressed the girl again, "Mademoiselle Patria, please eat this bread with this cup of water. Eating properly is half of the recovery, after all."

Patria hesitantly took the bread and Joly exhaled in relief. He placed the cup of water on the table and helped her sit up so she could eat and drink. Her head throbbed with pain and Patria felt dizzy and faint for a moment as she gathered her bearings. Once the room had stopped spinning, she looked over at Gavroche. "Have you eaten today?"

Gavroche nodded. In truth, he hadn't had any luck pick pocketing today and had walked to the Café with empty pockets and an empty stomach. However, he knew that Patria wouldn't eat all of the bread she sorely needed if she knew he was hungry. She was notorious for putting Gavroche and the boys before herself.

She was also notoriously good at catching lies.

"You liar," she said with a sad smile. She broke her hunk of bread in half and tossed one half to Gavroche, trying to ignore the stab of pain that little action caused her. "Eat," she said, "you need it just as much as I do."

It took all of Patria's willpower not to wolf down her half of the bread. She quietly contemplated how long since she had eaten something while Enjolras dismissed the men for the night. It was at least three days since she had enough money to buy bread for both the children and herself.

By the time she woke from her reverie, the only people in the room were Joly, Gavroche, and Enjolras. Without the rest of the men, the room felt very large and very empty. Joly looked at her kindly and spoke. "Mademoiselle Patria, if you will permit me, I need to wrap your ribs to keep them in place. I will also need to administer a spoonful of laudanum to treat your pain."

"No laudanum," Patria replied after she swallowed her last bite of bread. "I've seen its disastrous effects. I want no part in it. The pain is not terribly bad."

An argument formed on the tip of Joly's tongue but since Patria woke, it has become increasingly apparent how stubborn she could be. "If you insist," he said tersely. "However, I do have to bandage your ribs. I will have no argument there."

"Fair enough," said Patria with a slow nod. "Do you have all the materials you need?"

Joly nodded, dug into his bag, and procured a long bandage roll. "How did you get these injuries?" he asked as he started to bandage Patria's bony waist.

"An unsatisfied customer." Patria responded shortly. Joly wrapped the bandage around her bad ribs and she clenched her teeth to keep from crying out.

"A sailor?" Gavroche asked quietly. He looked at Patria with sad eyes and clenched his small fists in anger. It angered him to see her in so much pain and it saddened him to see her struggle through it. To him and the other gamins, Patria was their loving mother, sister, and nurse that they never had.

Patria nodded, not trusting her voice. It hurt her just as much to show any pain in front of Gavroche as it hurt Gavroche to see it.

Enjolras stood silent a few steps away. Since his men had left, he gave special attention to examine Patria's character in as much the same way as Joly examined her body. She was obstinate, that much he was sure. She was quick to distrust, though living on the streets as she has, she must be in order to survive. She cared for Gavroche and, as it sounds, the other little street urchins he knew. Enjolras flitted his calculating eyes between Gavroche and Patria and saw that Gavroche looked much healthier than the girl. Did she go hungry when she fed him and the other boys? France- the real Patria- does she risk her health for the benefit of others? The answer is undoubtedly yes. The soils of France provide the wheat and grapes that are made into the bread and wine that fuel the nation and yet the people decimate the land with their trash and their bullets. He admitted even as he thought this that he was planning a revolution that will surely puncture bullet holes in the earth. However, even Patria must acknowledge that Progress has its downfalls.

"-need a bed for the night. You cannot sleep in the streets in the state you're in." Enjolras heard Joly speak when he shook his thoughts out of his head.

"Mine will do," Enjolras' offering took the tone of a command. "It's just down the hall." Patria narrowed her eyes at Enjolras' suggestion and he mentally kicked himself. "I will sleep downstairs," he said to make amends, "I'm sure the landlady will not mind; Grantaire sleeps down there when he's too drunk to walk out the door." He nodded to Patria, Joly, and Gavroche and then gathering his papers from a nearby chair, he left.

Joly watched Enjolras leave and once he heard his Chief make his way down the stairs he turned around and addressed his patient. "Please, Mademoiselle Patria, take Enjolras' offer. It is the safest offer you could have. Enjolras is immensely respectable and would not do anything to harm you."

"I appreciate your concern," Patria replied. She kept her voice blank. "However, I do not need a bed. I will sleep where I always do."

Much to Joly's chagrin, Patria eased herself off the table and gingerly placed both feet on the ground. She took a quick, shallow breath in preparation for the pain. One step on her bad ankle and her knees promptly buckled underneath her. Joly quickly grasped her arm and slung it around his shoulders to support her. "I am taking you to Enjolras' room and I will have no more of this nonsense! You'll limp yourself to an early grave if you keep this up!"

"Then let me limp!" Patria spat out of frustration. She started to move her arm off of Joly but he quickly snatched her hand and kept her arm in place.

"You have two broken ribs and a sprained ankle from living on the streets and yet you wish to go back so soon?" Joly asked. He was nearly as frustrated as Patria. To date, she was his most difficult patient.

"Yes." With the help of Joly, Patria made a beeline for the staircase in the hopes that she could shake him off when she reached the narrow landing. "Why should I spend a night in a bed for my petty injuries when there are others suffering far worse outside?"

"Because," Joly started, easily rerouting Patria down the hall and to Enjolras' room, "you were given the opportunity."

Joly and Patria reached Enjolras' room shortly after, followed by an uncharacteristically quiet Gavroche. The bedroom was half the size of the meeting room and sparsely furnished. The bed was pushed against the far wall underneath the lone window and looked neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. There was a small night table next to it with a very used oil lamp resting in the middle with a book on the side. A worn and threadbare rug covered the equally worn floorboards. A small fireplace was on the right, opposite the bed, where the only source of light lay smoldering in the coals. A writing desk and a wardrobe that had both seen better days sat next to the doorway on the right. The only thing impressive Patria saw that did not fit in with the rest of the room was the tall bookcase and what it held. The bookcase nearly touched the ceiling and was full of hardcover books both thick and thin. She quickly glanced at the titles behind Joly when they entered the room and found that most, if not all, of the titles pertained to law and politics.

The two reached the bed and Joly carefully unwound Patria's arm from his shoulders and gently sat her down on the bed. "You'll be bedridden for some time," Joly said grimly. He didn't know how long he could keep fighting with Patria's stubborn personality.

"How long?" Patria glared at Joly before shifting her eyes and tenderly looking at Gavroche in the doorway.

"At least two weeks, provided you stay in bed at all times."

Patria's eyebrows knitted together in anguish and frustration. "_Two weeks_?" She yelled, "How do you expect me to feed the children while I'm jailed in here without any source of income?" Sharp pain pierced her ribs at her outburst so she quickly closed her eyes in an attempt to compose herself. Once she opened them, she switched tactics and spoke pleadingly. "Those children need me. They can't survive on pick pocketing alone. However, what I do… what I do provides me with a few sous each day to pay for a loaf of bread for the children. If I'm to be stuck here for two entire weeks…" She trailed off when she heard footsteps coming near- Enjolras soon appeared behind Gavroche.

She now focused her plea toward Enjolras. "Monsieur, if I'm bedridden for two weeks there will be no one to feed the children. I cannot stay. Not only that, but I will be inconveniencing you."

"Have no worries, Mademoiselle," Enjolras answered. "I am not inconvenienced. You will stay here as long as Joly prescribed to recover as quickly as possible."

Enjolras saw Patria's eyes grow a dark blue like a sea in a storm and her countenance grew rigid and angry. She opened her mouth to rebuttal but one look from Gavroche silenced her and she released all of her anger as quickly as it appeared in an inaudible sigh. "I understand. I will do as Monsieur Joly requests." She now spoke to Gavroche, "Please tell the rest of the boys not to fret and I'll see them soon." The gamin nodded and quickly ran out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the Café.

Joly, astonished that Patria gave in so easily, took his chance and eased Patria onto the pillow. "I'll leave the bottle of Laudanum here in case the pain prevents you from sleeping."

"Thank you, Monsieur."

Joly paused, his hand hovering above his bag. When she wasn't so stubborn and putting up a fight, Patria was extremely docile. Joly mentally shook himself of his shock and nodded to Patria in welcome. He quickly placed the Laudanum on the night table and walked out of the room before she had the chance to change her mind. "Quite the change," Joly whispered happily when he passed Enjolras in the hallway.

"Indeed," Enjolras muttered. He looked at Patria with a quizzical eye and shut the door.


	3. Chapter Three

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any rights to _Les Misérables _or anything affiliated with it.

Patria heard Enjolras follow Joly and allowed herself a sigh of relief. Even though Gavroche trusted those men with his life, she could not help but feel on edge. Her profession taught her to never trust a man- they only thought of themselves and their needs, not anyone else's. These men will turn on her and eventually, so will the boys she took care of. It was only a matter of time.

This is the reason why Patria resolved to leave in the middle of the night.

It wasn't that she wasn't grateful for the help the men gave her- on the contrary, she appreciated their care. Patria could see through her own stubbornness to feel gratitude toward Joly, Enjolras, and whoever carried her away from the alley. She was not blind to care, despite the lack thereof given to her for quite some time. It was the fact that she detested more than anything the thought that she would not be able to provide for Gavroche and the other little boys that drove her to leave the very night of her rescue. Joly and Enjolras did not understand: they saw her incapacitation as a necessary evil toward recovery and nothing more. Patria quickly forgave them for their blindness. Even though Patria was frightened and confused when she was on that large table surrounded by men, she could tell from one glance that they were all unaccustomed to living on the streets. Bourgeois, every one of them. They did not see the hollowed eyes of the starving children like she did- how could they? Even Patria did not see those haunting eyes until her own became just as hollowed only two years ago, shortly after she killed-

She shook her head to clear it of the horrifying images from her former life and instead focused on every shade of pain she was experiencing throughout her body. The pain that pulsed in her head with every heartbeat was starting to fade but her ribs hurt as much as ever. _Well enough_, thought Patria, _the pain will keep me awake and alert_. Her swollen ankle, when not in use, was only a dull nuisance but would protest nearly as loud as her ribs when she put any weight on it. She lay in bed for a few hours more like this, concentrating on her pain until somewhere in the Café a grandfather clock struck midnight.

"The bewitching hour," she mumbled to herself as she slowly sat up in bed, "the perfect time for my disappearing act."

As quickly as she could- which wasn't very quick at all, much to her irritation- Patria limped to the door. The few steps that took created a flame of pain that licked around her torso and traveled up and down her leg. She despairingly thought of the flight of stairs she would have to descend and nearly entertained the thought to stay just one more night. However, an image in her mind of those starving children she's grown so fond of built a wall of resilience and she resolved to finish what she started.

She opened the door painfully slow to prevent any loud squeaking and once that was finished, she slowly limped down the hall, using the nearest wall for support. The light from the gas lamps outside shone through the large windows of the men's meeting room and allowed Patria enough light to see the top of the stairs. She reached the staircase when the clock struck fifteen minutes past the hour. Her heartbeat echoed in her ears and made her head pound so greatly she thought her head itself was visibly pulsating. Her good leg was tiring and her bad ankle was nearing twice its natural size. Her breathing was heavy, which hurt her ribs, so she tried to breathe as shallowly as she could. In this way, she started to feel light-headed and dizzy. The amount of oxygen she needed was not being met because she wasn't breathing deeply. This was a vicious combination that compelled Patria to stop and rest for a moment.

When she no longer felt dizzy, Patria gripped both of the railings on the narrow staircase and continued her slow and laborious journey. She wouldn't allow herself any more rests until she shut the Café door behind her. Halfway down the stairs she realized how hard it would be to keep this resolution and nearly stopped to take a second break but her stubbornness soon regained control and she pushed on.

There was a faint light emitting behind the staircase but Patria was concentrating too much on her pain to give any thought to the light at the bottom of the staircase. She slowly and carefully reached the last step and it felt sweet indeed to place her foot on the landing. Exhausted and ridden with pain, she resolved to sit on the last step to rest. Her knees buckled beneath her and she braced herself for the bolt of pain in her midsection when she landed on her rear but it never came. Instead, a strong hand from beside the railing gripped her arm and kept her from falling.

"You _are_ obstinate, aren't you?" Enjolras asked lightly.

Patria whipped her blonde head to glare at Enjolras in the flickering lamplight. "I prefer the term _persevering_." She wrenched her arm out of his grasp. "What are you doing awake?"

"I could ask you the same question," Enjolras answered. He let go of Patria's arm but he stayed near the landing in case she fell.

Patria dismissed his reply and looked around the main room of the Café. Most of the Café was shrouded in darkness and she could glimpse a few empty tables and chairs along the dark corners and walls. The only light in the room came from an oil lamp flickering dimly on a table behind the staircase, either to conserve the oil or to hide the light from any wandering invalids. The lamp shone over the grandfather clock she heard earlier and it now chimed half-past in the corner nearest the table. The lamp also revealed a plethora of maps, books, and loose leaf papers that covered the table's entirety. "You knew I'd leave," she said once the last chime faded, looking back at Enjolras. He looked as stern and as focused as ever.

"You might have been able to pull the wool over Joly's eyes, but not mine," he said. He took two steps closer and stood in front of Patria, blocking her way. "You have to rest. This little excursion down the stairs is not doing your ankle or your ribs any good."

"My _little excursion_ was to make sure the young boys following Gavroche have some morsels of food in their stomachs. Out on the streets it's difficult to come by enough food to qualify as a meal, though I expected you wouldn't understand as much."

Patria saw that she struck a nerve with Enjolras. His blue eyes briefly flashed in anger before he checked his emotions. "I understand perfectly well the trials most of France must endure in order to survive. Do not assume that I know nothing of the people of our country solely because I do not share their burden."

"Then you know why I must check on them," Patria fired back.

"Why would it matter if you checked on them now?" Enjolras asked. "You have nothing to give them and all of the boulangeries are closed. You would only be giving them false hopes."

Patria knew this was true and felt a twinge of annoyance that Enjolras quickly realized the hole in her excuse. She decided to revise it. "I need to make sure they're _safe_. Anything can happen to young boys out there in the streets. One could be injured or maybe another is cold and needs another warm body for comfort-"

Enjolras raised a hand to stop Patria's excuses. He took a deep breath and exhaled in a long suffering sigh. "Patria," he addressed her as he would a child, "if you do not heal, you will be permanently lame. No man wants a lady with permanent maladies and if all the other ladies were occupied, they wouldn't pay your full price." Patria quickly turned her head away and he knew his words stung but he carried on. "How would you possibly provide for those boys and for yourself if even now you resort to fasting when your earnings can only buy enough bread for your group of orphan boys?"

"Sometimes self sacrifice is necessary," Patria answered stiffly, still looking away. She and Enjolras both knew she lost their argument but nevertheless she stood resilient on the staircase.

"I agree," Enjolras spoke softly. Patria's head twitched toward Enjolras but not enough to exchange glances. In this way she missed his stare at her bony clavicle. Hollowed, he imagined with a twinge of anger, just like her stomach. "However, self sacrifice is not necessary in this case. You will stay in bed for the remainder of Joly's orders. Gavroche will no doubt visit us again in the coming days, now knowing you are recuperating here, and I will personally see that he leaves with enough bread to feed an army."

Patria now looked at him in astonishment and confusion. "You would do that? You, a bourgeois?"

Enjolras met her questioning gaze with amusement, "I'm already lending you my room, aren't I?" Patria gave a slight nod. "That's what I thought. I'm going to help you back up the staircase now. Your ankle looks worse than when Joly first examined it."

For once, Patria nodded in agreement and allowed Enjolras to carefully lift her up and carry her up the stairs. Her ribs screamed in pain when her spine slightly curved into Enjolras' hold. She bit her lip to keep from crying out and the taste of blood quickly trickled onto her tongue.

It was not hard to carry Patria up the stairs and back into his room. Enjolras set his jaw with a mixture of frustration and anger that even though she was slightly shorter than himself, she only weighed as much as someone half her size. Her shoulder blades cut into Enjolras' arm and he was perturbed that he could feel her entire bone structure underneath her rags. He carried Patria through the open bedroom doorway and gingerly laid her down back on the bed. "I will be downstairs," he said when he stood upright and adjusted his jacket, "so I will know if you attempt another escape." Patria looked up at him sourly and the corners of Enjolras' mouth twitched upward. "Goodnight, Mademoiselle."

"Goodnight, Monsieur."

Enjolras shut the door behind him and made his way back downstairs. The clock struck twelve forty-five in the morning. Normally his eyes would start to grow heavy by this time but not tonight. A smoldering anger coursed through his veins that kept him awake. How could people treat their Patria like that? Why does Patria take their abuse with silent acceptance?

He was a few paces away from his chair when he stopped in his tracks. What did he just ask? The Patria injured in his room upstairs and the Patria he fought for are two entirely different entities. Enjolras shook his head in disbelief. _My tired mind is getting carried away_.

Enjolras sat down and stared at the little flame in the lamp. _However_, he thought, _perhaps I was wrong about Patria. While she isn't the true Patria, she admittedly shares a few characteristics._ He thought about the words she said earlier: _sometimes self sacrifice is necessary_. She didn't even know how near she was to the truth. He looked down at his barricade plans and the list of supplies he and his men have gathered in the recent months. _Sometimes self sacrifice is necessary_. He mulled over these words, spoken by one who no doubt knew the meaning of self sacrifice inside and out. In her world everyone tries to survive by living for themselves and yet she starves herself to feed a ragtag group of young gamins. Ideally, selflessness is a trait Enjolras wanted to see in a French Republic: everyone helping everyone else for a collective benefit. The ones that benefit from the current monarchy only think of themselves, thus crippling the rest of the people and thereby injuring their country as a whole. The dog-eat-dog attitude the monarchy exudes needs to be destroyed to create the Republic Enjolras and his men have been planning. Patria- both the injured woman and the injured country- share this selflessness. In this trait they are one.

Enjolras lightly scoffed at this fleeting thought. _They are one? It must be early if I'm confusing the two._ He looked up at the clock to confirm that it was indeed early enough to confuse his country and the girl, and gathered all of his books and papers together. He took off his purple jacket and wrapped it around his books in a makeshift pillow before he blew out the lamp.


	4. Chapter Four

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any rights to _Les Misérables _or anything affiliated with it.

Patria woke throughout the night due to the multitude of pains that coursed through her and, growing frustrated, gave up on sleep at daybreak. She looked around the room for anything to ease her boredom and saw a book on the night table. The slim hardcover book was worn and the pages were yellowed from use. The first page revealed the title of the book: _Discours sur l'origine et les fondements de l'inégalité parmi les hommes_.* Patria gave a start. Rousseau? This explains why Enjolras let someone like Patria use his room and why he offered to feed the boys on the street. She looked up at Enjolras' bookcase and had no doubt in her mind that hidden among his textbooks was Rousseau's later work, _Du contrat social ou Principes du droit politique._** She was no stranger to Rousseau's works: her father, before the police found him, used to read her excerpts from both of these books every night as if they were bedtime stories. She was frustrated that Enjolras would lay out this book in plain sight- if one wrong person even glimpsed the title he could be tried for treason. Did he have no self preservation?

Yet, despite this, she was not afraid of the ideals written inside the covers and was too bored to deny herself any form of amusement. Accustomed to living in the hustle and bustle of the streets, Patria felt as if she were a caged animal since she arrived and the little window above the bed only gave her a tantalizing glimpse of Paris that made her itch for more. Too keep her mind off of this itch in her bones she quickly opened to the first page and began to read those familiar words she remembered from years ago.

A few hours later at eight o'clock sharp, a firm knock sounded at the door. "Come in," spoke Patria.

Enjolras opened the door with a tray of bread, cheese, and milk and was surprised to find Patria sitting up in his bed with _Discourse on Inequality _open in her hands. "You read?"

"I haven't always lived on the streets," Patria replied shortly, answering his question in a roundabout way.

This piqued Enjolras' interest. He stepped closer and set the tray of food on the night table. "What do you think of Rousseau so far?"

Patria closed the book and hesitantly stroked the cover with a small, genuine smile that softened her features. "My father used to read me Rousseau every night." She sat like this for a moment looking at the cover and Enjolras looked at her curiously, knowing full well this was not a side of her that was easily seen. As if hearing his thoughts, Patria's eyes suddenly darkened and her entire countenance grew rigid and guarded. She traded the book for the tray of food and her voice immediately adopted the flat tone Enjolras was used to hearing from her. "He's more optimistic than Hobbes and less bloodthirsty than Robespierre."

Enjolras was astonished. Hobbes? Robespierre? He had never heard of a more well-read prostitute in his life. Though he did hold revere for Robespierre, he admitted Patria's words were true. Robespierre was bloodthirsty but that was what made him effective. He stared at this stubborn, secretive woman and wondered what other surprises she had up her gaudy and tattered sleeves. A plan was forming in his mind and he decided to unravel her secrets and surprises useful to him. "Can you sew?"

Patria looked up from the milk that was about to chase the bread and cheese she ate while Enjolras was preoccupied with his thoughts. "What?"

"Can you sew? A jacket of mine has a torn seam."

"I can," said Patria. She quickly brought the cup of milk to her lips before Enjolras could ask any more questions and relished the thick milk that coated her throat. It had been too long since she last tasted milk.

"I will provide the needle and thread."

"And the jacket," Patria quipped. She placed the empty cup back on the tray and handed the tray back to Enjolras.

As he took the tray, he asked with a steady eye on Patria, "May I inquire how you learned to sew?"

"You may."

Now she was purposely being difficult. Enjolras tried to bite back his annoyance but try as he might a flicker of heat was heard in his question. "How did you learn to sew?"

Patria heard his annoyance loud and clear- it took the same tone as every other man she met on the street when she knowingly asked for an outrageous price- whether to turn them away or to provide for the children, it depended on how she was feeling. She weighed her options carefully before she gave her response. How would he react if she pushed more buttons? What answer would lead to fewer questions? She had worked at a dressmaker's shop but surely revealing that bit of personal history would only encourage more questions. She settled for the generic answer. "My mother." It wasn't all a lie: she had learned to sew from her mother. It was the eleven years working at the dressmaker's that honed her skills.

Enjolras caught Patria's hesitation and knew she was again keeping secrets. Her response was far from satisfying and even her hesitation, while revealing that there was something more, could be deciphered in a multitude of ways. At the present moment, however, he settled for her answer. He bowed, explained he will enter again at noon with her lunch and his jacket, and promptly left.

He met Grantaire downstairs while returning the tray, already working on his first bottle of wine. "Look who it is!" Grantaire exclaimed. He wildly spread out his arms and a few drops of wine splashed out of the bottle he clutched like a lifeline. "Apollo returns after raising the sun in the east. Pray tell, where do you lodge your chariot and your horses of fire?"

Enjolras ignored Grantaire's jest and handed the tray to the landlady. He turned around and saw Grantaire grinning devilishly through a swig of wine. "Grantaire, I need to borrow your jacket."

Intrigued, Grantaire momentarily unhinged his hand from the wine bottle to take off the green jacket he wore. "What for? Surely the god of the sun doesn't need an extra jacket to keep warm." Nevertheless, he handed his jacket over to Enjolras' open palm.

"Thank you," Enjolras said when the jacket was in his grasp. He immediately took it in both his hands and ripped apart a shoulder seam.

"_What are you doing?_" Grantaire's joking pretense disappeared and in his shock he became more sober than he had been in months. He made to grab his jacket but Enjolras moved out of reach. "That was new!"

"And it will be new again this afternoon," Enjolras said as he draped the jacket over his left arm. "I'm off to buy needle and thread right now."

Grantaire stopped in his tracks, frozen with confusion. He followed Enjolras' retreating figure with his eyes until the closing door blocked his view of the marble man. When the door slammed shut behind him, it was as if a spell was broken: Grantaire gave a huff of annoyance, frustration, and confusion and slumped into a nearby chair. It didn't take long for the bottle to find his lips once more.

Noon found Enjolras again knocking on his bedroom door. Grantaire's torn jacket was draped across one arm that held a spool of thread, a pair of scissors, and a needle. His other hand steadied the lunch tray that contained bread, cheese, grapes, and a cup of milk. He opened the door once he heard Patria call him in.

Patria saw the green jacket on Enjolras' arm and immediately knew it wasn't his. If he had a torn jacket he would have retrieved it from his wardrobe. Why he felt the need to lie, Patria left that to him. She could hardly begrudge him for his secrets when she had secrets of her own.

Enjolras first gave Patria the tray of food and then he placed Grantaire's jacket and needle and thread on the night table under her close watch. He then laid the pair of scissors on top of the jacket and he saw that Patria violently paled. Her face, already sallow, became paler still and the red of her lips quickly faded. "Are you alright, Mademoiselle? Is your pain getting worse?"

"Yes. No." Patria blinked once and looked up at Enjolras. "I am fine. The worst of the pain is fading. I don't need those scissors."

"Do you not need to cut the thread? I doubt you will use all-"

"I do not need those scissors," Patria repeated. "Take them back. I can use my teeth."

Enjolras was miffed but he took the scissors back. Let her use her teeth if she wants. He placed the scissors in the inside pocket of his purple coat and turned around to study his bookcase. "Do you want any other books to occupy your time?"

Patria swallowed the bite of bread in her mouth before replying. "Yes, please. Do you have _The Social Contract_ or anything else of Rousseau's?"

Wordlessly, Enjolras plucked _The Social Contract_ and a few of Rousseau's shorter essays and placed them on the night table. "Was your father an active supporter of the Jacobins during and after the Revolution?"

"Only for money." Patria finished her cheese and moved onto her grapes. "Originally, he was a university botanist."

Enjolras was tempted to ask what she thought about Rousseau and leftist Jacobin ideals but did not know how to ask without prying. Patria was unnaturally revealing about her past today compared to yesterday- it took a lot of coaxing just to tell them her name. _It must be because I told her I'd give Gavroche bread_. He watched her eat the grapes slowly and with great care and decided to just ask the question and be done with it. "And did you support your father in all of his political endeavors?"

Patria froze. This was a test- but what was the right answer? Enjolras belonged to the Bourgeoisie- that much was certain- yet he gave up his bed so she could heal and he offered to provide for Gavroche and the boys. Above all, she wanted to keep him to that agreement and this was the sort of question that could make or break it. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the stack of Rousseau's writing and remembered how _Discourse on Inequality_ was placed carelessly next to the bed. She had her answer.

"I supported my father in everything he did."

This answer evidently pleased Enjolras. His eyes sparked at her response and his shoulders slackened minutely. The two remained in silence this way, Enjolras not daring to press his luck any further and Patria not daring to reveal anything more. She finished the rest of her meal and Enjolras promised to be back at five o'clock with dinner.

* * *

*_Discourse on the Origin and Basis of Inequality among Men_, by Jean-Jacques Rousseau; published 1755

**_Of the Social Contract, or Principles of Political Right_, by Jean-Jacques Rousseau; published 1762


	5. Chapter Five

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any rights to _Les Misérables _or anything affiliated with it.

By the time Enjolras entered that evening with dinner, Patria had finished mending the jacket and most of the reading material. He found her pensively staring out the window. "The jacket is on the table," Patria said, slowing turning her head toward the doorway. "It was easy to mend. All seam tears are."

Enjolras gave Patria the dinner tray before he took up the jacket. He inspected the shoulder and it was as if he had never torn it. It really did look brand-new. He gave a little tug on the fabric to test its strength. The seam was even stronger than it was originally. _Exactly what I was hoping for._

"What? You don't trust my mending?" Patria was genuinely affronted. "I've mended plenty of clothes before. In fact, I've created an ample amount. A simple tear on a seam such as that was child's play for me."

"My apologies," he cleared his throat and looked up from Grantaire's jacket, "I did not mean to offend you, truly. If it's any consolation, you are welcome to join my men and I in our meeting tonight in the same room where you first arrived. It must be tiring sitting in here all day."

Patria didn't think that she had sounded that angry to warrant a trip down the hall when Enjolras said himself she had to stay in bed until she recovered. However, she did not let this opportunity go. She realized an entire day trapped on this bed was enough to drive her insane. "Yes," she blurted hastily. She saw it was difficult for Enjolras to keep a straight face at her outburst. In a softer tone, she added "I would enjoy that very much."

"Excellent," Enjolras said, his voice not giving away his satisfaction. "Once you've finished your meal I will escort you to the meeting room down the hall."

They were both silent afterward: Patria was eating fast enough to seem like she was in a hurry but slow enough to not reveal how much she wanted to get out of the room, while Enjolras placed Rousseau back on his bookshelf. Patria finished her lunch within a few minutes and gingerly turned her body so her feet planted themselves on the floor. Even the smallest bend or twist in her torso was enough to send bolts of pain up and down her body.

Enjolras took the tray, set it on top of the jacket, and helped Patria stand up. Her arm was looped around his shoulders and his arm was looped underneath hers. They slowly made their way out of his room and down the hall where Enjolras led her to a chair near the doorway, next to an old piano and underneath an old map of the French Republic. "You can sit here throughout the meeting. I'm going to take the tray back to Madame Louison so she can wash it." He quickly left and out of his room he grabbed both the tray and the jacket. He bunched up the jacket against his arm as he went downstairs in an effort to keep Patria in the dark. While downstairs, Enjolras instructed Madame Louison to give the jacket back to Grantaire after the meeting.

Enjolras came back with a few books and parchment and situated himself at the head of the large table in the middle of the room. He pulled out a pencil from his jacket. "They should be here in a few minutes," he said to Patria, before he started writing.

In a matter of moments a few of the men arrived. Most gave Patria shocked and perplexed looks before quickly looking at Enjolras as if for confirmation that she was actually sitting there. Enjolras gave them no mind, too intent on scribbling notes to bother a glance in their direction. One man entered the room and took a look around, as if taking stock of who was there. When his eyes landed on Patria, they revealed surprise mixed with relief. He purposely walked over to her and bowed. "Mademoiselle Patria," he said with a kind smile that reached his light blue eyes, "I don't believe we've formally met. My name is Combeferre. Courfeyrac and I were the ones who found you in the alley."

"Then thank you for your trouble," Patria bent her head in place of a curtsy to keep the polite pretense Combeferre started, "you did not have to do anything last night."

Combeferre's smile held a bit of sadness, not pity. For that Patria was thankful. "It was no trouble. I trust you are feeling better?"

"Yes, thank you."

At that moment, another man waltzed over and stood next to Combeferre. He had a head of curly dark hair and Patria recognized him as the man who stood close to Gavroche last night. That night he had the look of worry plastered on his face but tonight he was full of warmth and flirtation. "Mademoiselle," he said coyly. He bowed but kept his warm brown eyes on Patria and flashed her a wicked smile, "My name is Courfeyrac."

Patria inclined her head stiffly and stood her guard. She could tell he was quite the flirt- no stranger to the opposite sex- and wanted to make it quite clear to him that he was not to get any ideas. "Monsieur," she started, "I understand I have you to thank as well for finding me in the alley."

"It was nothing," Courfeyrac grinned, "it's only a shame we couldn't catch the bastard. Bahorel would have rather enjoyed a good fight with him."

"Courf," Combeferre chastised. His brows furrowed and his mouth grew stern but Courfeyrac was unfazed.

"Oh, come off it, 'Ferre, you know I only speak the truth." He gave Patria a wink. "So how did you convince Enjolras to let you join our meeting?"

"What do you mean? He asked me." The two men looked at each other in surprise and Patria grew suspicious. "Why? Is something wrong?"

Combeferre looked over at Enjolras, still writing furiously. "No woman is allowed in our meetings. Enjolras made that clear himself."

"However," Courfeyrac added with a humorous glint in his eyes, "it's no wonder he allowed you. You are Patria, after all. Everyone knows the only woman with whom Enjolras concerns himself is his motherland."

Enjolras, despite his intense writing, could see Combeferre and Courfeyrac chatting with Patria from underneath his eyelashes. He could tell they were both confused that she was in the room- the peculiar glance from Combeferre in his direction made that clear. He didn't bother with any explanations just then- they'll know later tonight. The three talked for a few minutes more until Joly entered. Upon seeing Patria, he quickly went over to her to check on her injuries. Knowing Joly, he would probably check her vitals for the possibility of any other ailments, now that there was no immediate emergency. Sure enough, not a moment later he made her open her mouth to check her tongue.

"You didn't happen to notice the irony of her person, Enjolras. Unless you did?"

Enjolras looked up from his parchment at the soft voice and saw a smiling Jehan Prouvaire at his side. "I don't understand what you mean."

Prouvaire blushed and looked down at his boots but he persevered in his quest to reveal Patria's poetic beauty. "Mademoiselle Patria. The monarchy has broken her. Yet, if last night was any indication, she perseveres and remains as strong and resilient as ever." Enjolras turned away from Prouvaire and looked at Patria with a curious eye. She remained unaware, as Joly was introducing her to Bossuet. "She even has the tricolor in her features," Prouvaire went on. "With eyes as deep and as blue as the distant Pyrenees, lips as red as the passion Parisians are known for, and hair as white and long as our fields of wheat." He sighed wistfully, "Every poet's dream."

Enjolras callously grunted to hide the fact that he agreed with Prouvaire and tucked away these characteristics deep within himself. "Mere coincidences," he mumbled gruffly, forcing himself back to writing his essay, though his train of thought was momentarily derailed.

"No," Prouvaire disagreed softly, "poetic beauty such as this is never the result of mere coincidences." He floated away- for that was the only way to describe how the poet walked, Courfeyrac determined- and left Enjolras to his own devices. He just started to continue writing when Grantaire burst into the room.

"Apollo!" He cried drunkenly. A bottle of wine, a different one from this morning, was clutched in his hand. "Why was it, when I entered the Café, that Ma'am-"

"Quiet, Grantaire!" Enjolras cut him off, his panic making him sound more severe than he intended. He stood up and decided now was as good a time as any to start the meeting, if only to keep Grantaire from revealing the true owner of the jacket. "Gentlemen!" He called everyone to attention. He stood up and his stance and air immediately demanded everyone's obedience.

"I apologize for the commotion in last night's meeting. Mademoiselle Patria is now recovering, thanks to Joly's help and if you hadn't noticed when you walked in tonight, she is sitting with us." He gestured to Patria and at this unwanted attention, he could see her coldly glaring at him, her cheeks slightly coloring. "Mademoiselle Patria is a prime example of what we stand for and why we're here. She has had to overcome strife put upon her by this monarchy and has had to endure great hardships for the same reason. She is broken by the very same men who sit atop their gilded thrones." Here, he quickly glanced at Prouvaire and the poet nodded his approval. "Unfortunately, Mademoiselle Patria is neither the first nor the last of these broken citizens. She is our reason to seek justice for those who are above the law. She is our reason to right the monarchy's wrongs. She is our reason to fight for a French Republic!"

Patria forgot to breathe. She couldn't believe it. Reading Rousseau and wishing for a Republic was one thing but to act upon that literature and those dreams were dangerous. She quickly swept over the room and saw that none of these men were even close to forty years of age- not even thirty-five. The room, while it might have been full, couldn't even match the numbers of a single unit in the National Guard. Did these men even have military histories? They were schoolboys. Anger coursed through her and a storm brewed in her eyes.

Enjolras saw the shock in her eyes and how her jaw tensed and knew she realized what this meeting was about. "Before I adjourned the meeting last night, we had yet to decide who was going to sew our flags." Here, there were some groans. "I have the pleasure of informing you all that I have found someone who sews remarkably better than all of you men combined." A collective sigh of relief was heard in the room but it was brief: curiosity quickly silenced them all. Who did the Chief find? "Mademoiselle Patria herself," Enjolras revealed with a proud smile. "Mademoiselle, will you please do us the honor of sewing our flags for our cause?"

All of the men turned from Enjolras and gave Patria a questioning stare; only Enjolras looked at her as if she had already consented, completely sure of her political stance. _She is Patria, after all_. Therefore, he was visibly shocked when Patria turned red in the face- not from unwanted attention, but rather anger.

"_Are you out of your mind?_" She yelled. Only Grantaire found this funny. "You're serious about planning to overthrow the government? Don't any of you know what happened the last time France had a revolution? How many men are in this room- twenty? That's at least a two-hundred-to-one ratio if you take your fight to the National Guard. At _least_. Do you even have ammunition?"

Enjolras looked as if he was slapped in the face, though to his credit he recovered quickly. "We have a rifle and pistol each with twenty rounds of ammunition per man and we are not alone. Bahorel here is our correspondent with twenty other groups just like us. Not only that, but we have the people on our side: all of our rallies are supported by at least a hundred French citizens. The people of France have suffered enough- there is no frivolity in our plans as you seem to suggest."

"You're just schoolboys!" Patria exclaimed, looking at each boy in turn, "You're dead men walking if you think you can go up against the National Guard!"

Enjolras' men looked down at their shoes and at each other and Enjolras could see the seeds of doubt were being sown. He quickly became just as infuriated. "Why are you so quick to denounce our cause? A Republic will lift you out of the slums!"

"Talk of a Republic is what dropped me there in the first place!" Patria cried. All were silent and stared at her, waiting for an explanation. She didn't want to explain more than was necessary but she imagined all of those faces colored red and black with blood and gunpowder and decided that revealing everything would perhaps turn them away from this revolution they were planning.

"My father used to be a botanist professor in Marseille but once the seventeen ninety-three revolution began, the universities were closed. He still had to support himself and my mother so he became a Jacobin and spoke at rallies to earn their keep. At first, he did not fully believe in the revolution and was only in it for the money, but soon those ideas took him by storm. I was born in eighteen-twelve and I was named after those very ideas he came to believe wholeheartedly.

"Known throughout Marseille for his speeches, my father became a marked man after Napoleon's defeat at Waterloo and Louis XVIII's return to the throne. We packed little and fled here, to Paris. My mother found work at a dressmaker's and my father sold flowers and wild fruit on the streets. When I was old enough, my mother convinced the dressmaker's that I could sew well enough to be hired. Fortunately, the dressmaker agreed: my mother died of pneumonia that winter.

"My father and I lived like this for many more years. By eighteen-thirty we lived comfortably in a little apartment. I sewed every day and when my father wasn't selling flowers, he was earning a bit of money on the side secretly giving speeches in dingy taverns about the possibility of a new Republic. One day, a fellow Jacobin recognized my father on the street and they started talking about Robespierre. A policeman heard them and arrested them both. They were only discussing one of Robespierre's essays- nothing more- yet they were arrested for a few little words that created dangerous ideas.

"When they were brought to the jail, my father revealed his name. Just like that, his sentence extended to life in prison." Patria's eyes hardened and she glared at Enjolras, "Speaking out leads to life imprisonment. Acting out leads to the guillotine. It only takes one word and you're in jail. It takes one shot and your head is gone."

"It is not our own lives that matter," Enjolras countered, as resolute as ever, "but rather the future of France."

"Even if that is so," Patria said sadly, "it is not only you that will suffer for your actions.

"After I learned about my father's fate, I walked back to our apartment. There I met our vile landlord, who heard what had happened. He told me he was going to raise the cost of rent to insure his own safety incase the police inquired about housing a Jacobin. He knowingly raised the rent unattainably high and I told him as much. He then suggested that he would lower the rent if I would be his mistress, starting that night. I refused but he did not take no for an answer.

"I tried to hurt him enough so I could run away. I bit, hit, clawed, and kicked him but he wouldn't back down," Patria's eyes were clouded and every man knew she was reliving her ordeal. "I finally grabbed the nearest thing I could hold: it was a pair of sewing scissors. I stabbed him in the neck.

"I ran for my life. I knew once he was found the police would trace his murder back to me. I never returned to the dressmaker's, fearing the police will wait for me there. I was so afraid of getting caught that I stuck to dark alleyways and I only went out at night. I've been living in the streets ever since."

Enjolras remembered how she reacted when he presented her with the pair of scissors earlier that day and now pieced the two pieces together. Calmly and quietly, though his words still resonated in the room, Enjolras had a shade of pleading in his voice when he said, "If anything, what you have had to suffer only gives you more reason to fight, as well as us. Your suffering is unjust and this monarchy is to blame. Do you really want all of your suffering and your father's suffering to go to waste in this oppressing government?"

Patria grew silent. Thinking he had her convinced, Enjolras asked again, "Will you sew our flags for the cause?"

Patria thought of her father and everything he went through because of his beliefs. He had such dedication, such faith that not even the threat of death would stop him from believing. She saw this trait in Enjolras and realized how alike the two really were. Both wholeheartedly throw themselves at the cause- not for their benefit- but for the benefit of those who cannot fight. If her father had asked for her help, would she have denied him? She squared her shoulders and raised her chin in pride. "For my father's sake, I will help you."


End file.
